The Final Fall
by scarletfox09
Summary: Set right where series 3 ends. Moriarty returns and goes after Sherlock's heart attacking the one person who counted the most. *Warning: Some graphic violence and mentions of torture. No coarse language, but mature situations are included.* Disclaimer: I own nothing but my story. The BBC proudly owns the Sherlock series.
1. Chapter 1

_* Hello, lovely readers! This is my first attempt at a fanfiction story so if it's terrible I do apologize. I appreciate all comments and reviews on both the story and writing style. Enjoy my idea of how Moriarty should make his comeback. :) *_

The East Wind

John and Mary Watson watch as the small jet's landing wheels touch down on the pavement of the run way where only minutes before they had rested waiting to take the great consulting detective to his post in Eastern Europe. The couple inch closer together to stave off the chill kicked up by the plane's descent and await the reappearance of the coat clad man on board.

Beside them the well-dressed Mycroft Holmes exits the sleek black car meant to take him back to the council. His leather gloved hands grip the wooden handle of his umbrella tighter than necessary as he stares towards his younger brother's silhouette stepping quickly down the steps.

Sherlock Holmes's heart beat faster as the plane crept higher into the sky taking him further away from the people he cared for. He told himself this would be the last time he would allow the tears to fall freely on his sharp cheeks; four minutes into the flight that plan was drastically destroyed. The call from his brother dried his eyes temporarily as the knowledge he would be returning home swept through his mind, but the happiness of the small victory was swiftly replaced by dread.

"He's back," came Sherlock's half strangled whisper in the empty cabin.

His crystal eyes closely watched the ground as the plane lowered too slowly for his agitated mind. _How is he back? I watched him pull the trigger, felt the pressure of his hand loosen in mine. How is he still alive?!_ The never ending stream of thoughts swirled through his consciousness, but there was one that stuck more viciously than the rest, taking root and suffocating him. _Does he know about Molly?_

He was out of his seat seconds after the wheels skidded to a halt, and made his usual dramatic appearance stepping out into the frosty air surrounded by a haze created by the landing. His silhouette though strong also showed the nervousness he carried, and as he leaped from the plane his mind swirled as the mist around him did.

The party waiting by the car welcomed back the man that bounded quickly over with warm smiles, but John quickly realized his friend's expression was not one of joy.

"Sherlock, what is it?" questioned the blonde man. "I know Moriarty is back, but you can stop him. There's no need to look so worried." His words, meant to reassure the black haired man, went virtually unheard as Sherlock stepped past them all before turning back with a wild look in his eyes.

"Molly, where's Molly? Have either of you spoken to her today? I need to know where she is." Panic stricken, Sherlock couldn't keep the tone out of his voice as he addressed the two before him. When their answers came up no he roughly turned to his older brother with a growl. "Mycroft, tell your people to find her now! And don't ask questions!"

His abrupt yell startled the small group. Their wide eyes were all trained on the raving man before them. Sherlock paced beside the car, hands on either side of his head, eyes shut tight, muttering out loud about how he must make sure she's safe and ensure Moriarty doesn't know about her. Mary stepped forward reaching out her hand to place lightly on his arm, but pulled back sharply when he spun on his heels to face them once again.

His eyes, softer but still frenzied, pleaded with them. "I am sorry but please help me." This kindness, not common in the man, was enough to pull his brother out of his stupor.

"I'll make some calls, ask around. Shouldn't be difficult to find the pathologist," Mycroft responded. Pulling is phone out of his coat pocket and scrutinizing his little brother with watchful eyes he attempted to reassure the distraught man, "I'm sure she's fine. Have a little patience, and you'll see."

Crystalline blue eyes brimming with fresh unshed tears followed the movements of the government man as he dialed a number and raised the phone to his ear. John moved into Sherlock's line of sight forcing him to look down at him instead of staring at his brother's back. The look of worry that decorated the soldier's face matched his friend's.

"What is it? What aren't you telling us? You've never shown this sort of worry for her, what's changed?"

Sherlock glanced away briefly before fixing his eyes back on John's. "There's something I haven't told you about us. Molly and I, I mean. We're..." He cut off suddenly eyes drawn and mind distracted by the blaring music emanating from the phone in Mary's pocket. The chorus to _Stayin' Alive_ pierced through the now silent group startling one of them in particular. _No, it can't be. Please let it just be a warning._

Striding towards the shocked woman in the red coat, he grabbed the phone from her steady hands, and pressed the accept call button before it could go to voice mail. On the other line he could hear the distant muffled sounds of a woman screaming. _No Molly please it can't be._

"Hello, Sherlock! Did you miss me?" came the sadistic voice on the other end of the line stopping Sherlock dead in his tracks. "I believe I have something of yours," Moriarty said before moving the mouth piece of the phone closer to the sounds of the struggling woman. Sherlock heard her thrashing about; her movements created a grating sound as though she were tied down to a metal legged chair. "You really did have me fooled, you know. Who would have thought little mousy Molly Hooper would be the key to breaking you?"

As the twisted psychopath spoke the detective's face turned paler his gut twisting knowing somehow the vile spider had found his greatest weakness and now planned to exploit it. Watching him turn towards the car, sheer terror on his face, John asked who it was, if it was him, and what he wanted. Slowly pulling the phone away from his head Sherlock turned the speaker on allowing the others to hear the sickening voice coming through it. Upon reaching the car he set the phone on the hood and placed his hands on either side bracing himself for what he was about to hear.

Moriarty continued with his wicked banter, "I never would have guessed it would be her. After all I did date her to see how close she was to you, and quickly dismissed the thought of her ever counting in your eyes when you humiliated her in front of me. I guess now I know that was because you wanted her for yourself." His maniacal laughter filtered through accompanied by the tsk tsk noise he made in disapproval. "Didn't you ever learn sentiment makes you weak?"

"What do you want?" The question came from Sherlock through clenched teeth.

"Ha what do I want? I want you, silly. I want you to burn!" Moriarty screamed the word sounding like the roaring of a panther before it strikes at its prey. "I told you I owe you a fall, Sherlock, and since you managed to escape me the first time I'll have to deliver it another way," he taunted.

"Let her go, and I'll do anything you ask of me," pleaded Sherlock, but before he could say more he was violently cut off by more shouting.

"Let her go?! Why would I do that?! I want to burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes, and she is going to be the match."

There were shuffling sounds and then the madman replied once more, "Do you have anything to say to our wittle Sherlock, Molly?" The sharp sound of duct tape being ripped away from flesh followed the question.

"Sherlock, don't do anything he says; I'll be fine." Her voice sounded small but determined delivering the words. "Remember to feed Bartholomew the cat," she added on as an afterthought. A crack of flesh meeting flesh resounded over the line as an open hand connected with Molly's cheek.

"That's not what I told you to say!" exclaimed the now furious psychopath. "Sorry about that; she's been a feisty one today, tried to stab Sebastian and myself with one of her scalpels when she saw us."

"Don't touch her!" Sherlock couldn't stop the anger pouring off him at the sound of that man hurting his Molly. He growled out a warning, "I swear I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, don't sound so cross, Sherly. Besides, that was nothing compared to what I have in store for her," Moriarty responded calmly. A hint of sadism coursed under his words as if he was smiling as he thought of all the things he would do to the woman.

"We must be going though; wouldn't want to miss our ride. But one more thing," as he said that the sliding of a gun barrel reached Sherlock's ears. He began screaming the name of the woman he desperately needed to see safe, but it didn't drown out the resounding cry of the gunshot that rang out. Her screams were heard briefly before being once again muffled. "Tick tock, Sherlock."

The line went dead. Sherlock shouted her name over and over pounding his fists against the hood staring at the black screen. John stood speechless, mouth agape; Mary silently gasped into her hand; Mycroft observed his brother's erratic behavior feeling completely useless. Soon the distraught detective gave up his wailing on the infernal machine below him and turned to the others. His eyes screamed frantic energy.

"We need to get to Barts immediately," he said before racing to the back door of the car.

All three of the onlookers followed close behind, diving into the car from all sides and directing the driver to step on it. Mycroft resumed his calls with haste requesting assistance at once while John asked, "Why Barts? How do you know that's where she was?"

"Because her cat's name is Toby not Bartholomew," Sherlock stated before slipping into his mind palace to search for answers to questions not yet asked. _I will find you, Molly. I will save you. I promise._


	2. Chapter 2

_* A quick warning: this chapter is violent. There is blood. I'm sorry if that freaks anyone out, but I can't imagine Moriarty kidnaps people without hurting them. He does threaten to skin someone after all. Well, that's it. As always I appreciate your comments, and I hope you find this chapter as intense as I do. *_

The Reunion

Molly Hooper strolled into her lab at 9:30 a.m. drinking her morning tea out of a plain white mug she found in a supply closet on her first day at Barts. She knew she should just buy her own, but the trusty mug had survived several drops and several of Sherlock's experiments; somehow the lab would feel empty without it just as it had felt empty after Sherlock faked his death and disappeared. Shortly after getting to work on her mountain of paperwork stacking up on the desk in her small office in the back of the lab she heard the ding signaling she had received a new email. Expecting it to be from her boss asking for the write up of the body she examined last night she opened it immediately.

 _Dear Molly,_

 _I regret to inform you that I will not be able to make our dinner this evening. I left your present in the end table to the right of the couch, but I fear it may be too late for me to ask. I am currently sitting aboard an airplane that is taking me away to an undisclosed location for an uncertain amount of time. This may be the last correspondence you receive from me, and I have spent the past two days attempting to determine how to tell you of this development. I have decided that simply telling you how my situation came about will be the easiest course of action._

 _Two days ago I did something I can never return from. A man named Charles Augusts Magnussen was going to hurt John and Mary; I could not let him do that, and I did the only thing I could to ensure their safety. I killed him. He had secrets that would have destroyed Mary and had her imprisoned, and I could not allow him to ruin their lives. At the wedding I made a vow to them; my actions fulfilled that vow._

 _However, due to my rash decision I am now forced into exile working for the British government. I cannot tell you where I am headed or what I will be doing. All I can tell you is that I am not expected to survive more than six months in this post which is why I know my gift reaches you far too late to do any good. Because I won't be there when you open it I wish to tell you why it's important to me. The box it is in is over three hundred years old and comes from Italy; I found it working on the case where I first met you and it just happens to be useful for the gift. What lies inside was my grandmother's and her mother's before her. It was meant to be passed on to Mycroft but my mother decided I was worthier of it. (She was right, but that's not important at the moment.) I had it altered to fit you perfectly, but I expect you won't be wearing it often now. Regardless of how often it graces you I do hope you enjoy it and find it as beautiful as I always have._

 _I wish our relationship did not have to end this way, but the plane is taking off and taking me away from you for the rest of our lives. My hope for you is that you find a better man than me that can give you the love and stability in your life that you deserve. Our time together though short was the best of my life, and if I never told you I want you to know I do love you. I am not an emotional or sentimental man, yet I know I am in love with you and always shall be._

 _Molly Hooper, you are exceptionally bright, beautiful, and talented. Don't be afraid to take what you deserve and, take it from me, you deserve the world, moon, and stars that as John has pointed out I know nothing about. I have not always treated you as I should, and for that I am sorry. Please continue to be the wonderful woman you are, and if the right man should enter your life, I hope you love him as deeply as I have loved you._

 _Yours in love,_

 _SH_

Tears welled up and spilled from the corners of her eyes as she read the words he wrote to her with care. She quickly reached for her phone only to find a message on the unlock screen.

 _Goodbye, Molly. I love you. - SH_

Fresh grief built in her heart as the realization dawned on her that he was really gone once again. The lump rising in her throat threatened to choke her. Before she could fall completely apart her boss walked into her office and informed her she had two men waiting to see the body from the previous night; he didn't notice the hardly restrained tears or tracks the previous ones had marked across her cheeks. Sherlock was right: ordinary people were extremely unobservant. The thought brought a broken laugh forth from her. With a strain in her voice she replied she would be right out and busied herself with wiping her eyes without smearing her minimal makeup.

By the time she made her way to the morgue her boss was gone and out of earshot; perfect for the two men he left standing side by side in the cold room surrounded by scalpels and saws. When Molly entered she saw a tall and well-built blonde man standing in the center of the room completely alone awaiting her appearance.

"I thought Mr. Weber said there were two of you," she responded in passing as she walked over to the wall of shelves pulling out the body in question. The woman had been 47 years old when her heart gave out due mostly to the extra fat she had packed on around her heart eating fries every day for 20 years. After pulling the heavy woman out with some difficulty Molly turned to the man expectantly waiting for his answer.

"There are two of us. My employer went for the loo, but I can examine the body in his absence." His English was of a Londoner but influenced by some Middle Eastern country; Molly guessed by his posture and close shaved hair coupled with his accent he must have served in the military for some extended amount of time.

Molly nodded and gestured towards the woman on the slab, "Her name was Meredith Hawking, and she died of heart failure caused by fat surrounding her heart. What exactly do you want to see?" Her tone expressed her impatience, and she couldn't stop the quavering that lingered from entering her voice.

"That'll be all I think. Thank you," the man responded eyes never leaving the small pathologist before him. With that Molly shoved the body back into the shelf and sealed the door.

"If that's all I'll be getting back to my work now. I expect you and your employer can find your way out."

She exited back into the lab heading towards her office to break down in tears once more. Her white lab coat billowed out behind her covering her blue cardigan distorting the shape of her body from the view of the military man staring after her. As she rounded the corner into the small room she noticed the TV had been turned on and on the screen was the face of the last man she ever wanted to see. Eyes widening in shock, breath catching in her lungs, she spun to face the lab behind her only to smack into the broad shouldered man that had followed her. Sensing the worst she threw her hands against his chest and bolted towards the door.

That was when she saw him. He stepped out of the shadows by the closed door with a devilish grin spread across his face. Heart hammering out of control in her chest Molly frantically reached for a weapon she could defend herself with; grabbing a loose scalpel she backed into a corner slashing the small blade in front of her body to keep the men back. Both simply laughed at the small woman's attempts to protect herself from the inevitable.

"Seb, get her."

The larger man quickly stepped towards Molly reaching for her arms and was sent staggering back when the sharp blade sunk into his left forearm; unfortunately, the blade stuck in his arm as he yanked away leaving the pathologist weaponless. She attempted to employ the self-defense techniques Sherlock had taught her but was roughly grabbed by the wrist as she thrust her right palm upwards towards the man's nose. He violently twisted her wrist around snapping the carpal bones and drawing a sharp shriek of pain from her lips.

He then stepped forward pushing her painfully against the counter, the point of the edge digging into her hip bone. With one hand he stuffed a piece of fabric into her open mouth to muffle her screams and with the other he drove the knife into her right trapezius muscle just above her subclavian artery. Her eyes watered at the sharp pain radiating up her neck and into her shoulder. The fight drained out of her as the soldier dropped the knife on the counter, ripped the lab coat from her shoulders, and dragged her half-conscious body across the room to plant her in the chair Moriarty had brought over to tie her to.

Molly vaguely registered when ropes pulled tightly around her good wrist but winced in pain as her broken wrist joined the other in captivity behind her back. The chill of the cold metal seeped into her bones through her blood soaked cardigan, torn open by the force of the man grabbing at her shucked coat. Any shifting of her body caused the legs of the chair to grate loudly against the linoleum covered floor. Regaining some of her strength she spat the cloth from her dry mouth and opened it once more to let loose a bloodcurdling scream to bring people running, but before a squeak could pass her lips a cold hand struck her hard in the lip. Blood quickly poured into her mouth and ran down her pallid face, the taste of the iron made her stomach churn.

Moriarty examined the blood covered ring on the hand he struck out with noticing how the crimson seeped into the magpie crest engraved in the silver creating a scarlet river in the metal. "Sebastian, tape her mouth shut so she can't do that again." His cool demeanor while speaking, never looking at Molly, froze her blood more than the hit; he was going to hurt her, and he didn't care how much.

"Why are you doing this? I'm not important," she explained with wavering words hoping beyond all hope that he actually didn't know the truth.

Moriarty's dead eyes bored into hers as he bent down to get in her face, hot breath filling her nostrils with the scent of his spearmint toothpaste, "Stop lying to me. I know the truth now, and it is so much more delightful than I could have hoped." He twisted his head looking like a snake coiling before the strike. "I never would have guessed it was you Sherlock wuved," the way he said the word, drawing it out, made Molly's skin crawl. "How did you manage to kidnap his shriveled heart?"

She pulled her head away twisting to get him out of her face; he laughed pulling back and standing up straight to look over at his companion. With the flick of his hand Sebastian walked towards Molly ripping a piece of grey duct tape from the roll before roughly placing it over her mouth. Moriarty walked away from his prisoner to pull another chair screeching across the floor to sit in facing Molly.

"I want to know the whole naughty story of your relationship with our Sherlock, but that will have to wait because I have a phone call to make."

He then whipped his pristine new phone out of the inside pocket of his tailored Westwood suit. One click and the phone was calling the one man that could save Molly's life. Moriarty put the ringer on speaker so that his prisoner could hear how Sherlock responded to the situation at hand, assuming he picked up at all.

 _Please pick up, Sherlock. Please I need you._

On the fifth ring the line clicked signifying that someone had finally picked up the phone. Molly started screaming trying to make her presence known, but Sebastian quickly silenced her by digging his thumb into the wound on her shoulder. Moriarty held a single finger up to his mouth before exclaiming his welcome.

"Hello, Sherlock! I believe I have something of yours," he taunted moving closer to the restrained woman. She jerked back from his advances causing her chair to grate against the ground and the ropes to tighten around her wrists. The pain that shot up her arm drew a muffled scream from her mouth. Moriarty continued speaking, but she blocked his voice out trying to calm her nerves and think of a way to tell Sherlock where to look for her.

Molly glanced at the phone when she heard his voice, the deep baritone that made her heart flutter whenever she heard it. But now it sounded strained and deeper as though he had been crying, possibly still was crying. _He's barely keeping it together. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I have to warn him; how to do I tell him to come to Barts without alerting Moriarty?_ Her eyes widened startled by the sudden outburst from the psychopath sitting before her.

His black eyes were trained on her as he moved his hand forward to put the phone by her taped mouth. "Do you have anything to say to our wittle Sherlock, Molly?" he asked before painfully ripping the tape from her face. He held up a piece of paper with the words 'Tell him you need him to come save you. Tell him you love him. Then start crying.' written across it in scrawling black letters.

Fresh tears threatened to escape, but she forced her voice to sound as strong as she could," Sherlock, don't do anything he says; I'll be fine." She managed to get the words out without breaking down and begging him to come for her. A sudden burst of brilliance struck her and she quickly added on, "Remember to feed Bartholomew the cat." No one else would understand that wasn't just an offhand request for him to take care of her cat but a message to come to Barts. No one else, not even Moriarty, knew her cat's name was Toby, only Sherlock.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the rough slap planted on her cheek sending a stinging sensation across the flesh and knocking her head to the side. Some of the blood from her mouth mixed with her saliva and dripped onto the cold floor as her head tilted down.

"That's not what I told you to say!" he shouted at her down turned face. His anger seeped out of his skin like the black lava that pours down the side of an active volcano. He continued talking to Sherlock with his calm sing-song tone, "Sorry about that...", but Molly's mind had faded out once again blocking out the horrid sound of the man's voice. The sound of Sherlock's voice distantly reached her ringing ears; he was shouting, scared. _I should say something to ease his fear. But speaking is so hard. I think I'd rather sleep now._

Moriarty motioned for Sebastian to pull his gun out and load the chamber. Both stood; Moriarty moved behind his companion so the sound of the bullet being chambered could be heard over the phone. Sherlock's frantic shouting began then calling out for the woman who could hardly lift her heavy head at the sound of the gun. The barrel of the gun was positioned against the woman's left leg on the outer fleshy part of her upper thigh, and the trigger was pulled. The sharp ringing reverberated around in Molly's head as she screamed. Sebastian quickly reapplied the tape to keep her voice down.

"Tick tock, Sherlock."

The panicked screams from the phone were the last thing Molly heard before the call was ended, and her eyes drifted shut granting her momentary reprieve from the fire traveling the length of her leg.

The two men quickly moved the woman out into the hallway and into the ambulance loading dock where their car waited to take them to the place where Molly Hooper was going to face her own death.


	3. Chapter 3

_*Hey, I'm back! Thank you for the fantastic reception and reviews! This chapter isn't as intense, but it does set up the main action of the story. I hope you enjoy.*_

The Scene

Greg Lestrade's head whipped up at the sound of car wheels screeching to a halt on the opposite side of the police barrier. _Why is Mycroft here? Sherlock isn't even in the building._ He continued to watch as four frantic figures exited the black car frequently used by the government man and sprinted to the barrier quickly breaking through the officers pushing the growing crowd back.

"What are you four doing here?" he asked as they neared him. "Sherlock! Sherlock you can't go in there; gunshots were reported! Get back here!" He shouted at the man that never slowed his speed as he raced past, but no amount shouting stopped the detective flying through the doors to the hospital. John and Molly quickly followed, hot on his heels, leaving the Detective Inspector on the sidewalk. "You, do not move," he said while forcefully pointing at Mycroft who waved him off, phone still at his ear. "Bloody hell," he grumbled as he ran into the locked down hospital.

Sherlock reached the closed door to the morgue's lab and paused out of breath, his hand gently placed on the door. Hundreds of images of what he may find beyond the thin barrier flooded through his mind. His eyes fluttered shut as he attempted to slow his erratic breathing. From behind him came the sound of more doors slamming open and in seconds the doctor and his wife stood shoulder to shoulder with the shaking man.

"It'll be okay Sherlock; he needs her alive," John said with less confidence than he had hoped.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes keeping them focused on the large grain of the fake wood before him, "I know, but I need to put my emotions away and use my mind. Moriarty wants me to be distracted. The only way to catch him is to see the case alone and not the person involved." His clipped words made sense to Mary, but John was about to interrupt that train of thought when Lestrade burst through the doors to the hallway they all stood in.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what do you think you're doing running in here?" he loudly implored. "Didn't you hear me say there was a report of gunshots somewhere in the building?"

"Gunshot."

"What?"

"Gunshot, singular. There was exactly one gunshot fired in this building eight minutes and forty-seven seconds ago. And it was in this lab," Sherlock said motioning at the room now at his back.

"How could you possibly know that? Wait isn't this Molly's lab?" the DI asked with a deepening expression of perplexity.

Sherlock slowly turned back to the door, eyes once again focused straight ahead, "Yes, it is her lab." He then pushed the door open and stepped inside the bright room. His mind began collecting the data and deducing the scene that unfolded.

 _Metal chairs:_ _one dragged to the middle of the room to tie the woman to; rough rope found in any hardware store, untraceable; it left scratches on the floor where she fought back and ground the legs in; pool of blood mixed with saliva to the right of the chair, her head must have drooped down and blood from a wound on her mouth dripped onto the floor; a second chair was moved to face hers. The seat he sat in._

 _Far Corner of the room: bloody scalpel; blood everywhere but two distinct drip patterns, one from the blade being yanked out towards the counter top and the other from the blade being pulled back towards the attacker; the attacker is wounded but the victim was also stabbed; one partial bloody hand print on the counter, small made by a woman; a bloodstained lab coat on the ground, rip in the right shoulder area with blood radiating from the wound in the fabric; the woman was stabbed in the shoulder close to a major artery_

 _Blood drips: originate in the corner; she grabbed a weapon and backed into the corner; she was then dragged across the room to the chair; the man tied her down and went to bandage his wound; two men were involved in the attack_

 _Office: TV turned on; tea still warm; email open on computer and open file on desk; interrupted by someone then_

Sherlock took all the information from the scene in as the others filed in behind him gasping at the destruction of the lab. Broken beakers and various small cutting tools lay scattered on the floor beside the main lab station on the right side of the room. Blood pooled in the right front corner of the room on both the floor and the counter top, but the largest body of it congregated beside the chairs. Molly's once pristine coat lay in a heap, a large spot of red still spreading around the large gash.

"Oh my god," whispered Lestrade as he stepped over shards of glass to walk over to the corner. "What happened here?"

"Moriarty happened," Sherlock responded his observant eyes still raking across the office as he drew in a sharp breath to give his deductions. "He came in under some false pretense with another man roughly 2 meters in height, and kidnapped Molly. They must have startled her with the TV making her turn to leave the lab, but before she made it to the door she changed direction and headed for the corner. Moriarty or the other man must have been waiting by the door forcing her to reroute. Being a sensible woman she fumbled for a weapon and knocked several items from the counter before getting hold of a small scalpel. It's in the corner there where the larger man attacked her, suffered a deep wound from the blade, and then turned the blade on its original owner. After stabbing her he dragged her to the chair, tied her down, and then Moriarty called us. There is more blood heading towards the doors to the ambulance bay; must have been where their ride was waiting." He finished speaking and took a deep breath to replace the air he had expended giving his speech. Without looking at the shocked expressions of his friends he stalked into the small office.

Inside the room he found the report she had almost finished; the woman it pertained to died as so many do and held no interest for the detective, but the email on the pathologist's screen did. It was signed SH and, while reading it, the man it came from fell back into the office's chair, his knees buckling beneath him.

"What is that? It says it's from you." John was peeking over the seated man's head reading the final paragraph and salutation of the email. "Yours in Love? Sherlock, were you and Molly dating?" The question held more weight than John knew.

"Yes, John, we were, and that is why Moriarty having her is so dangerous. He has my heart in his hand; he could crush it in one swift strike." Tension coursed through the man's words as he read the last thing she had. "He took her. He has her, and the last thing she read was my stupid email to her telling her goodbye." In one move he shoved the chair back, rising from it and slamming his palm down on the cluttered desktop. "I should have been here!" he shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the already tear stained papers below.

"Hey! Look at me," the doctor said pointing his finger at his friend whose ever changing eyes turned to grant the demand. "Listen, you just said out there that this is what he wants," he said gesturing at the tears, "He wants you broken and not thinking. You need to stop blaming yourself. Try saving the life instead of solving the crime." Hearing his own words reflected back at him made the genius stand taller and nod slightly to the man he owed so much too.

"Right," he said removing his scarf and coat and throwing them haphazardly over the back of the chair, "save the life. He must have left a clue for me to follow otherwise this was all pointless. Start looking for something that seems out of place," he instructed the others as he began the search himself.

Thirty minutes later and they were all on the verge of going through every shelf in the morgue to find something, anything that would lead them to the madman and his prisoner. Lestrade had phoned out telling his men to send forensics down to aid in the search, but there was nothing to find. Sherlock let out his sixth frustrated growl after striking out once again when he thought perhaps Molly's patented mug would have something in it or on it.

"This doesn't make any sense! Why didn't he leave a clue for me to solve?" the consulting detective shouted again as he collapsed into the metal chair his pathologist had been in less than an hour before. A single drop of her blood that had been on the chair back impressed itself on the crisp white shirt pressed against it leaving a blotch and marking the man.

"Maybe it's not something that he left in the room," Lestrade chimed in. "He sent those pips before and you said he called you earlier so maybe he's going to send it. You know like over text or email or something."

The black curls on Sherlock's head shook as his head snapped up to look at the DI he underestimated so often. "That's actually brilliant. Ah, why didn't I think of that? Of course he'll send the clue via technology. Makes the timing more perfect," his voice showed the most enthusiasm it had in two days.

Almost immediately a ding emanated from the office. One new email message popped up on the screen next to Sherlock's goodbye. They all rushed to the room to see what new hell the consulting criminal had in store for them.

"This is it," Sherlock said as he read the subject line. **Clue number one.** "Lestrade, get these people out of the lab; I need to focus."

"Right, you heard him. Everybody out!" Lestrade instructed his team. "But you wait until I'm back to open that email," he added looking at the dark curls on the back of Sherlock's head.

"Hurry up then," he shot back.

Two minutes later only four people remained in the basement office. Once Lestrade returned from clearing the others out he nodded towards the computer giving his consent to open the email. All eyes zeroed in on the short message and picture that popped up on the screen.

The picture showed an unconscious Molly hanging from a hook in the center of a darkened room. Her hands had been tied once again and attached to the hook above her head leaving her dangling, feet barely scraping the ground as she swung lightly side to side. Sherlock deduced correctly the location of her shoulder wound and took account of every cut on her face; her left eye was beginning to swell from the impact of a fist and her lip still bled from a deep cut to the lower left side of her mouth. Her clothes fared little better than she did her once blue cardigan now soaked through with sweat and blood and her khakis ripped and dirty.

Below the picture Moriarty had typed the words, "She woke up on the way here and had to be knocked out again, but don't worry I made sure not to break any of the pretty features on her face. Though it is going to take a while for that nasty swelling to go down." Sherlock's jaw clenched at the sight of the picture and the nonchalant words accompanying it; seeing her in such a vulnerable and injured state threw his mind into frenzy again. He quickly calculated exactly what he was going to do to Moriarty when he caught him to slow the raging thoughts. In one swift move he replaced the image on the screen with a word document that had been attached to the email.

 **Clue Number One:**

 **Two choices must be made. 1) which pill and, 2) which building. Come and find me.**

A final warning was added on at the bottom informing the readers that in six hours the pathologist would be killed if she hadn't been rescued, but the criminal mastermind had been known to change his mind on a dime making the countdown rather arbitrary as he could snap at any time.

"Six hours, that's plenty of time to get to her," Lestrade said after Sherlock exited out of the email program.

"She won't survive six hours without proper medical attention," John corrected remembering the wounds from the picture. "Her stab and gunshot wound would bleed out in five hours, but they also have her hanging putting more pressure on her lungs which would cut the time down to four hours at most in her weakened state. If she has sustained any broken ribs or has internal bleeding the time drops further; at this point we have three hours maximum to ensure she can be treated properly." When he finished the man seated beside him jumped up and pulled out his black phone.

While setting a timer for three hours he spoke to those around him, "We need to make good time through the first clues; they will get harder and the locations may be hard to quickly search." With that he stepped out of the room leaving his coat and scarf behind in his rush to be on his way to the first location.

The DI started after him first and pushed past to open the door leading out of the trashed morgue, "Where to first then?"

"Where two choices had to be made, and where I first heard Moriarty's name," the detective answered. He focused once again on the task at hand pushing his dangerous emotions to the back of his mind. _Stay focused, Holmes. Save the life. Save the life._


	4. Chapter 4

_*Hey, y'all! I slipped a Tumblr reference in at the end, and I'm really hoping you catch it because it makes me laugh every time I see it; I sadly don't know who had the original post though. I hope you all are enjoying this crazy story as much as I am. :)*_

The Mirror Choices

 _2:36:47_

Sherlock glanced once more at the countdown and then pocketed his phone as the car neared the twin buildings. He redirected his eyes to peer through the windshield of the Detective Inspector's unmarked car to observe the windows on the matching front facades of the two austere buildings. Memories of that fatal night almost four years ago crept into his mind momentarily distracting him from the task at hand.

 _The cabbie pulled a fake gun and pointed it into the back seat of the cab at the dark haired man inside. Roland Kerr College. An odd location for a murder, but the cabbie was right about it being convenient. Sherlock followed him towards the right hand building wondering what was to come in the next few minutes; the thought he may actually die didn't cross his mind until he was holding the pill up to the light. It looked identical to the one the cabbie held in his hand, and a reading of the man's face would do no good in telling Sherlock if he chose right. A man who knows he may die before the pill reaches his lips lives like it, and he doesn't flinch when taking the "bad pill". But he also enjoys outliving another victim._

 _Listening to the words drawing him closer to the edge, Sherlock slowly brought the capsule to his lips ready to test his skill. As he opened his mouth to take the final step over the precipice the glass behind his head shattered, and the cabbie collapsed letting his pill fly from his slack hand. A quick look through the hole revealed the shooter had fled as swiftly as he arrived. Returning to the dying man lying in a pool of spreading crimson, Sherlock pulled from gasping lips the name of the man that would wreck his life._

"Moriarty."

"What, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked as he threw the shifter into the park position.

"What? Nothing, just a memory," he responded.

John and Mary jumped out of the doors in the back and ran up next to Sherlock and Lestrade who stood staring at both buildings. "Mary and I will go left. That's the building I chose and fired the gun in." This statement pulled a confused look and prompt eye roll from the grey haired detective. John heard him mumbling of course under his breath before continuing with the plan, "Sherlock, you and Lestrade go in the right building like you and the cabbie did. Go to the same room you were in and so will we; I'm sure the clue will be on your side, but you never know with him."

A stern nod and furrowed brow from the focused younger detective was the only communication John received in acknowledgment of his plan. They split off into pairs and ran into their respective buildings. The doctor felt a sense of deja vu sprinting inside the university, remembering how it felt the first time he made the journey, but last time it was to save his new friend's life; now it was to save his best friend's heart, and the woman he had come to see as a dear friend.

"What happened here? Why did Moriarty bring us here first?" Mary asked as the two entered the room John had seen Sherlock from.

"This is where we caught our first criminal together. Well, caught isn't quite right. He played Sherlock, and the idiot was about to take the pill that killed four people; I ran in here as he was about to take it and shot through that window there," he said pointing straight ahead. "I killed him, and we never told anyone. Later, when Sherlock was walking around telling people he was in shock because he had a blanket, he told me the cabbie driver had mentioned a name him; the name of a man that payed the cabbie to kill the people. It was Moriarty. I don't know how he knew this was the place of our first encounter with his handiwork, but here we are. There they are," he said finally seeing them jog into the room. Sherlock was holding his phone in his hand and seconds later John's phone began buzzing in his jacket pocket.

"Look for anything. I don't know what he'll do here; it could be a phone or an email on a computer, but he may have planted something here, as well," Sherlock's deep voice instructed over the line.

In the opposing building Lestrade began walking through the tables and chairs searching every seat for anything that looked suspicious. His polished work shoes clicked across the spotless floor in a regular rhythm that lulled Sherlock's mind into its palace. His clear eyes flicked across the room; it looked exactly as it had the first time he walked into it, only the style of the chairs had changed. All but one had changed. He crossed the room and pulled out the seat he had occupied before; it was the same one, the rip in the fabric in the left-hand corner of the seat still hadn't been mended, and it hadn't been tossed with the others.

"Lestrade, is it normal for a university to replace every chair in a room except one?"

The man being addressed turned to see his friend skimming a hand gently across the back of an old chair that didn't match the others in the room. "Not typically no. If I remember correctly after the incident someone donated money to the university so they could replace anything in here that had been ruined. Does this one look familiar? Or is it just an old chair they brought in for class do you think?" He glanced down at his watch and added, "Speaking of class, the man downstairs said they have one in here in ten minutes so we need to get moving if we want to find what Moriarty put in here."

"Assuming it is in here." Sherlock examined every inch of the chair looking for any more rips or markings. Upon finding none he lowered himself into it and placed his hands on the table below him as he had before. The scene replayed before his eyes, and he saw every detail of the bespectacled cabbie. _Spectacles. I could see the reflection of the building behind me in his glasses. What did I see in them that seemed unimportant at the time?_

"John, how far up did you go when you were searching for me?"

In the other room Mary picked up the phone and replied that he had said this was as far as he had gone. Walking back into the room John spoke into the receiver his wife held out, "I scoured the floors below and then started on this one. I didn't go any further up after I shot the cabbie. Why?"

"Did you see anyone else in the building as you were searching or as you were leaving?" Sherlock inquired.

"No, there was no one else here. At least not on the floors I checked."

"Yes, not on your floors because he was above you," the dark haired man murmured while gazing into the past at the frozen image of the cabbie. In his glasses was the reflection of a man in an impeccable suit gazing down into the lit room measuring how the world's only consulting detective fared in this test.

"What? Who was above me?" John asked contorting his face into a question.

"Moriarty was above you. He was there on the floor just above where you are now, watching me."

"What? Sherlock, how could you possibly know that?" Lestrade asked as he walked over to the windows to get a better look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and responded, "Because I saw him that night; I just didn't realize I was seeing him. I was so focused on the game that I didn't notice when his reflection appeared in the cabbie's glasses. I could see him right there," he said pointing to where he saw the reflection in his memory.

He followed the direction his finger was pointing and noticed a small mirror had been placed on a bookshelf. It wasn't striking except for the fact it happened to be in the exact spot he had been pointing towards. Curious to see if it was simply a coincidence Sherlock tentatively walked towards it watching how it reflected different things depending on where he positioned his head.

"Hey, I think we found something!"

John's voice pulled Sherlock out of his observations. Crossing the room to stand by Lestrade in the new window he saw the couple standing in the adjacent window pointing up at the side of the building.

"There's something painted on the wall in yellow paint," John informed them.

"It looks like it's backwards though. Like whoever wrote it wanted to make the reader use a mirror to properly read it," Mary added.

"Of course. Very clever," Sherlock said as he turned back towards the mirror. He returned to the window and the curious expressions on the faces of the occupants of the opposite window. "Is there a mirror like this by the door on a bookshelf?"

John left momentarily and reappeared holding an identical mirror to the one Sherlock held.

"Perfect. Hold it up like this so I can read what the wall says," Sherlock said showing how he needed the mirror to be held. "Lestrade, write this down."

After three failed attempts to master the proper stance, Mary commandeered the mirror from her husband and demonstrated how it needed to be done so that the men in the other building could read the words.

"Clue Number Two: I must be handled with care and washed daily or my skin will crack and chip. Where am I?" Sherlock read aloud so the others could hear.

"Where do we need to go next, Sherlock?" John called.

Sherlock's brows pulled together in thought, but he was interrupted by an influx of students into the classroom. "Who are you?" one of them asked looking from the two men in the room to the man and woman, who were holding a mirror and hanging out the window, across from them.

"Leaving," Sherlock responded striding out the door. He and the DI descended the steps on the front of the building and met their companions at the car.

"Everyone think. What sorts of things need to be handled with care? What..." but he cut off when he looked at John's smirk. "What? What am I missing?"

"He brought us to the place where we solved our first crime that involved him. Where did we solve our second crime that he had a hand in?" John led him to the answer and reveled in the sudden burst of understanding that crossed his friend's face.

"Soo Lin Choo and the teapots!" he exclaimed, a smile spreading across his face. "We didn't know the spider worked for a woman that was employed by Moriarty when we were on the case, but I dug up her records while I was taking down the network. Ah, you're brilliant John," he said as he led the others back into the car.

Once they were all seated Lestrade began pulling out, "So we're off to the National Antique's Museum, yeah?"

Sherlock looked at him with a face that said more than a question could. "You don't really think I let you two run around all over England solving crimes without supervision do you?" Lestrade asked rolling his eyes at the overgrown child beside him.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as they headed back towards downtown London.

"Yep, told me to keep an eye on you two and report back to him," the driver said smirking slightly at the groan coming from the man next to him.

 _2:21:15_

Sherlock's playful groan cut off as he looked at the time ticking down. By the time they reached the museum they would only have two hours left to solve the puzzles and save her. He rested his head against the window letting the cool of the glass clear his mind as it had when he was a child. In the seat next to him Lestrade sighed softly and pressed the accelerator down farther, clicking on the sirens to move the cars out of their way and shorten their drive time.

Ten minutes into the ride a text alert went off on John's phone. He pulled it from his jacket and read the name of the sender. Unknown. _Odd, I never get messages from random numbers. You're an idiot John; it's going to be a message from him. Sherlock is lost in lalaland like he has been for most of the day. Can't say I blame him, and if it keeps him from becoming manic again, I'll accept it. Stop having an internal johnologue with yourself and open the message._

Shaking off his thoughts he nudged his wife and held out his phone showing her the message notification. Her eyes flicked up landing on the dark curls pressed against the glass; she looked back to the phone and slid her finger across the screen to open the message. It was blank. The blinking dots appeared as soon as they opened the message and a few seconds later a video message popped up below the blank message. Their eyes met briefly and then John clicked on the video.

Sherlock's arm nearly knocked the car off the road when it smacked against Lestrade's arm in its path to the backseat. He snatched the phone from the frozen doctors and started the video on the screen from the beginning hoping to find the source of the scream that pulled him from his reveries.


	5. Chapter 5

_*So this chapter is shorter. College life caught up to me and demanded I devote all my time to it, but I somehow found time to get this chapter put together. As always enjoy:)*_

The Message

Moriarty adjusted the camera to ensure maximum coverage of the scene. The focus was on Molly still hanging in the center of the damp room, but Sebastian could be seen on the right side of the frame, a shadow hiding among the dark edges of the room. Molly was still unconscious; a deep purple bruise spread across the left side of her face from the bottom of her jaw to the outer edge of her eye. Thick blood from her broken nose dripped slowly off the tip of her chin onto her stained blouse.

"Seb, how much more damage can I do to her without killing her?" Moriarty asked scrunching his nose up in disdain at the puddle of red that spread further with every splash of blood dripping from the dangling shoe.

The soldier took account of all the injuries the pathologist had starting at her nose and ending at her leg. "She has a minor concussion, but that's nothing to worry about you could hit her up to five more times without any long term brain damage as long as you avoid the base of her skull. But the wounds to her shoulder and leg are serious. I avoided the major arteries, but she'll still bleed out from them if they aren't treated soon." He lifted the hem of her shirt to expose her ribcage that sported splotches of purple so dark they were almost black. "Internal bleeding as well. You should avoid hitting the left side of her torso."

"I gave them six hours. How much time do you think she has?"

"Less than three hours; you may want to make sure everything is set up after you send your message." Moriarty nodded and pulled out his phone to check the time.

"They should be getting to the college now. Let's do this, wake her up."

 _2:10:58_

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!" Lestrade shouted as the man sat forward again with John's phone in his hand.

The video opened to show Molly in the same room she was in in the picture, but her conditioned had deteriorated. For five seconds it was just her swinging slightly and shaking her head as if to clear it; then Moriarty's voice broke the silence. It was close to the camera, and as it spoke the man it was attached to entered into the frame and continued toward Molly.

"Wakey, wakey! Sherlock will want to see those pretty brown eyes of yours!"

Sherlock tensed, gripping the phone harder, when he say Moriarty run his hand over her bruised cheek. Molly was becoming more alert, looking up at her restrained hands and around the room she was locked in. Her eyes shone with fear, yet when her captor seized a fist full of her hair and forced her to look at him there was determination and defiance as well.

"What do you want from me?" She asked glaring into dead eyes.

"Molly, we've already gone over this. I'm going to kill you to break Sherlock's," when he said the name he pointed at the camera set up across from them and grinned, "heart." He whispered the last word into her ear making the pathologist close her eyes in disgust and terror.

When she opened them again she looked directly into the camera preparing to tell Sherlock to find her and kill the psychopath, but as her lips parted to speak a searing pain spread across the length of her back drawing a startled scream from her. Moriarty cracked the short, leather whip in the air and struck once more.

The scream Molly let loose echoed through the car. Three pairs of eyes were glued to the small screen and one pair of ears was trained carefully on every sound the phone emitted. They watched as Moriarty lashed the suspended woman three more times across the back before he ripped the shredded blue cardigan off her shoulders. He spun her around to give the camera full view of the tears he had created in her thin blouse and the fresh blood spreading across the rips in the fabric.

She began spinning back to the front as Moriarty sauntered towards the camera. "You've only got two more hours to save her, but don't expect to get her back in one piece," he said staring straight into Sherlock's eyes across the distance.

As he moved out of the shot, Sherlock caught one last look at his pathologist before the video ended. She pulled her head up and whispered his name softly; her eyes pleaded for release and safety. The video cut off as the tears began cascading down her face.

 _2:7:24_

Lestrade zigzagged through traffic in downtown London heading towards the museum at speeds unsafe for intercity travel. Sherlock still held the phone, which had faded to black, his eyes frozen to the screen replaying everything he had seen. John and Mary watched the detective carefully anticipating another bout of manic energy, but after a few seconds the man's shoulders untensed. He passed the phone to the backseat without looking at his friends and steepled his fingers under his chin.

When he spoke his voice was unnaturally calm, "He's trying to distract us from the clues. There's nothing in the video to suggest where he has her so we must stay focused on finding and solving his puzzles."

Lestrade mumbled his answer to the statement; John nodded and settled back into his seat ready to rush from the car as soon as it stopped, but Mary stayed where she was at Sherlock's elbow. "How are you so calm right now? All of you?" She asked, her voice rising a pitch. "Did you not see what he just did? Did you not see her face? How are you not screaming bloody murder or crying or doing something right now?" Angry tears began dripping from her eyes as she yelled the final words.

John gently pulled her back into her seat and let her rest against his chest. "Moriarty wants us to be emotional. Believe me we are angry, and there's nothing I want to do more than scream. But we all need to be on high alert until we find her. Once we do we can let our anger out. Right, Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes, right," he said absentmindedly. "When we find her and save her, when I know she's safe, I'm going to kill Moriarty," he said calmly, turning to the backseat to grab one of Mary's hands. He looked into her eyes and said as reassuringly as possible, "I'm going to find her, Mary. Don't worry."

She gently nodded and wiped at her eyes. Everyone in the car composed themselves as the DI pulled the car to a stop in front of the Gallery.

"Head straight for the teapots and remember the next clue should pertain to when we first met Moriarty."

Four people exited a dark grey car and sprinted up the steps of the museum startling passersby on the street, but judging by the look in the eyes of the man leading the charge, none of them noticed the discord they were causing.


End file.
